Knock, knock
by miXiZ
Summary: The hazards of drinking. A quick one shot at the brothers after a hunt. Sam and beer don't mix. Enjoy, ya idjits :D


**AN: A quick one shot taking place some time after BUABS. A big thanks to Biensche and NerdAngel for their help and prompting ;)**

 *****sn*****

With an unintentional thud Sam plunked the empty beer bottle on the wooden table in their motel room. He blinked and focused on the other empty bottles that littered the table. Was it five? Or six? He squinted. Sam sighed and let his hand wander to the chair next to him. Feeling a last bottle in the carton he grabbed it and stared it down. If this is number six it must be five on the table. He could have sworn it was six, or seven even. But that was impossible. There were only six bottles in a six-pack.

Lazily, the younger Winchester twisted the cap off the new beer bottle and let it drop to the floor. The metallic noise it caused elicited a chuckle from the man and he tried to imitate it, but failed. Shrugging, Sam put the bottle to his lips and gulped down a few swallows.

" 'ey Dean," he slurred and then giggled. That's right, Dean wasn't there. Sam slowly shook his head and rested his chin on the bottle. What did he say he'd do again? Pee? Sleep? Grab another six-pack? Pick up a girl? Ah, Sam couldn't remember, not that it mattered. Dean would have to buy more beer if he wanted any because Sam had almost polished off the stash they had. He laughed again before taking another swig.

This damned hunt they worked had really messed Sam up. Demons. Ever since he'd been possessed by Meg, Sam had a different feeling about those hell spawns. The things he had done, especially to his own brother... Sam shivered and quickly downed the rest of the beer.

Staring at the latest empty bottle in his hand, a shudder ran through the man, shaking his tipsy frame. Argh, he hated the taste of beer. Why did he drink it again? He didn't remember. But the woozy feeling in his head and the bitter taste in his mouth reminded him why he usually steered clear of alcohol.

Replacing the bottle on the table, Sam knocked it against another one and like dominoes they all fell over, rolling across the table. One fell down and exploded into a mess of glass splinters before Sam's wobbly hands managed to hold onto the other ones. With an effort he placed them all upright again and then looked at the broken one at his feet. Dean will be pissed off, Sam thought. Speaking of Dean, where was he?

Bewildered Sam looked around, noticing a lumpy shape on one of the beds which tilted precariously in front of his eyes. Sam shook his head in an attempt to clear his eyesight but gave up when he just couldn't get the lump, Dean, into focus. With a sigh, Sam pressed his hands against his head, trying to ease the headache that was beginning to build up.

Another fleeting glance at his sleeping brother made Sam chuckle softly. He'd have to remind Dean for years to come of the day when his little brother managed to out-drink him. Sam frowned again, trying to remember the reason for the alcohol session and when exactly Dean had conked out... but he came up blank. He'd have to ask Dean in the morning.

Sam leaned his hands on table to push himself up, ready to hit the bed himself, when a noise from their motel room door got his attention. Checking on his brother, Sam saw he hadn't moved, he was sure of that, despite seeing double.

"Dean," he hissed, pulling his handgun from his waistband. Someone was trying to pick their lock. Probably a burglar. A human. At least the EMF reader was keeping quiet. Sam did not want to kill a human so he re-pocketed the gun and grabbed a chair instead. For a moment the young hunter swayed until he found his balance. Why didn't his brother get up to help?

The moment Sam took his place at the wall next to the door, he heard the tell-tale click of the lock opening up. Sam pushed himself off the wall and lifted the chair to swing when the door jarred open, revealing a human shape - or was it two? - in the dim light. Something about that shape looked familiar but Sam didn't have time to work his befuddled brain through the motions. Instinct took over and he swung the chair down as hard as possible when the stranger stepped inside.

The chair collided with the intruder's head with a sickening crack followed by a strangled moan and a heavy thud as the man hit the floor. Due to his lack of equilibrium, Sam couldn't control the pace he had put in his attack and he tumbled to the ground, barely managing to avoid hitting his own head on the floor. Sam's head was spinning and a sick feeling spread in the pit of his stomach when he sat up again.

"Dean?" Sam called again, louder this time, but still the shape on the bed did not move. How much did his brother drink to be that dead to the world? It took Sam a minute to get to his feet. The heap on the floor was laying unmoving and Sam staggered over to wake his brother. He switched on the light on the nightstand and froze. Illuminated now, he saw that what he thought was his brother sleeping was their duffel bags and Sam's own jacket.

"Wha' the...," he muttered and turned towards the fallen intruder a bit too fast, almost crashing to the floor. He just managed to catch himself and staggered over to the bundle on the floor.

"No," he muttered when he realized the shape on the floor was wearing Dean's jacket. His gaze traveled up to the man's head and Sam sobered up in a matter of seconds as he fell to his knees next to what he now realized was his brother.

"Shit, Dean, 'm sorry," Sam mumbled, running trembling fingers over his brother's skull. Then he shoved Dean's shoulder gently. "Come on, wake up." But Dean didn't move. Sam muttered under his breath and grabbed Dean's arm and jacket to pull him into the room. Then he kicked the door closed.

Running his hands through his hair, Sam sighed, wondering what to do next. His head might have sobered a bit but he still couldn't think straight. After a moment he went back on his knees, turning his brother over. Dean's face entered his view and Sam gulped, seeing the gash above his eye that was bleeding heavily.

Taking a deep breath, Sam picked up his unconscious brother and carried him over to the empty bed on legs as unsteady as a newborn colt's. Then he fetched a soft cloth to dab at the wound, which made Dean frown slightly, but he didn't wake. Somehow Sam was glad he didn't have to face his undoubtedly pissed off big brother yet. His mind was still working too sluggishly to come up with a reasonable excuse. Sam fetched the butterfly bandages from their duffel and applied them over the cut. With Dean seen to, Sam went to his bed, rid it of all duffel bags and jackets and leaned back against the headboard. What the hell just happened?

They had been on a hunt, nasty case of a poltergeist which turned out to be a demon after all. Just thinking of it made Sam feel his pocket for the anti possession charm Bobby had given them after Sam's experience with being possessed by Meg. He had hurt Dean then, knocked him out, shot him and punched his head. But at least he had been possessed. Now however, he was just drunk. And he'd hurt Dean again. Oh, his brother would be fuming.

Sam let his eyes wander over his brother's still form. Then he looked at the table cluttered with empty bottles. Geez, did he drink all that by himself? Squinting his eyes, Sam stopped counting when he reached twenty empty bottles. No way he drank all that. Not by himself at least. Why did they have so much beer there anyways? Sure, Dean liked to drink a couple at times, but Sam usually only had a bottle or two. Closing his eyes, Sam tried to remember.

Dean had bought two six-packs after they had finished the hunt, to celebrate. And despite his usual limit of two bottles, Sam had opened a third. Still, two six-packs made twelve bottles, not twenty. They must have bought more at the gas station around the corner. Slowly things were coming back to Sam, them drinking beers, laughing and being carefree for once in their lives. And then Dean had wanted a change. He wanted something other than beer, had grabbed the keys and taken off to the gas station. Leaving Sam with the last six bottles of beer.

Dragging himself up, Sam glanced at the ground in front of their door, but no broken bottle of Jack or something similar was visible. So Sam patted down the jacket Dean was still wearing, and came away with a bottle of Johnny Walker and two receipts. One was for the whiskey, the other for three six-packs.

Twenty bottles on the table, a broken one on the floor and... oh, nine bottles under the table. All six-packs accounted for. But Sam still didn't know how much he'd had. A groan from his brother's bed redirected Sam's attention.

"Dean?" Sam sat next to the older Winchester, swallowing hard. Dean blinked his eyes once or twice before groaning again and using his fingers to gingerly feel around his bruised face.

"What the hell," Dean hissed when he came across the butterfly bandages. "Sam?"

"I'm here, Dean," Sam replied and Dean turned his head to look at him in confusion.

"The hell happened?" Dean squeezed his eyes shut against the glare of the lamp. Catching on quickly, Sam turned off the small lamp on the night stand.

"Sorry," Sam mumbled.

"What for?"

"Everything?"

"Everything? I don't even know what happened. Care to fill me in?" Dean sounded exasperated and hurting and Sam wasn't sure if he really cared to fill him in. Lifting his gaze from his hands Sam found his brother scrutinizing him. Then Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Sam, are you drunk?"

"I..., no, I was until about ten minutes ago," Sam admitted.

" 'ts that suppos'd to mean?" Dean's frown deepened.

"Look, Dean, I'm sorry, I don't know what happened but apparently we killed about five six-packs and you must have left to buy more booze and...," Sam halted his rambling when Dean swung his legs around to sit on the bed facing him.

"Hold on, five? Really, Sam? When I left to get something stronger, we were on two, each. And you looked ready to keel over." Dean eyeballed his brother who looked down to his shoes, saying nothing. "And how does that correlate to me sporting some butterflies?"

The silence coming from Sam was tangible. The younger man didn't know which words to chose to make his brother's outburst minimal. When the silence dragged on, Dean became apprehensive.

"Sammy?" A menacing undertone colored Dean's voice and Sam finally met his brother's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't mean to... I thought you were a burglar."

"A burglar?" Dean shouted, getting to his feet quicker than his head appreciated it. He pressed his hand against his forehead to ease the headache, but his blood was starting to boil. "Is that your way of telling me you knocked me over the head?" Dean was incredulous and Sam just stared at him.

"There's a reason I never drink as much as you do, Dean. But when you left... I dunno, with all that demon crap the last few months I wanted to forget. I must have finished the last pack by myself."

"By yourself? Dude, I was barely gone for ten minutes. Not even I go that pace."

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "I didn't realize you had left, I thought you went to sleep and then there was this noise at the door and I," Sam trailed off, eyes pleading with his brother. "I grabbed that chair..."

"And used it to redecorate my face, yes I know." Dean paced through the room to the table, slowly shaking his head. "At least you didn't shoot me... again," Dean stated icily.

"Ah, come on, man, I said I was sorry. And I wasn't in control when I shot you, as you keep pointing out."

"Yes, but if these things keep happening, Sam, I will start wondering."

"You think I...," Sam blanched. "You don't think that, please. Dean, I could never intentionally hurt you, you know that."

Dean opened his mouth to retort but his phone ringing in his pocket cut off whatever he was going to say. With a parting stare at his brother, Dean answered his phone.

"Hey Bobby," he said in a clipped tone, putting his phone down after activating the speaker.

"Dean, y'alright? You sound pissed." Bobby's voice sounded tinny through the device.

"How do you know that, Bobby, I barely spoke two words," Dean scowled.

"I know you like a book, son," Bobby replied. "Sam there, too?"

"Yes, Bobby, 'm here," Sam mumbled.

"And you sound... drunk. What's going on there, boys?"

The brothers exchanged a look. "I sound pissed because Sam - who IS drunk - clubbed me over the head with a frigging chair," Dean explained.

"I didn't mean to, I thought he was an intruder," Sam defended himself.

"If you could hold your liquor better you would have known I was out and you would not have mistaken a key in the lock for a lock pick," Dean growled.

"BOYS!" Bobby cut in, making both Winchesters look at the phone. "Don't get at each other's throats, ya idjits. Are you hurt, Dean?"

"I got a cut on my eyebrow and a headache like a hoard of broncos playing bongos in my skull," Dean muttered irritably. Sam shrugged and held out his hands apologetically.

"I said I'm sorry like a million times, Dean," Sam said dejectedly and hiccuped. Bobby sighed.

"Sam, get your brother some aspirin and Dean, make sure Sam sleeps off the fog in his brain without puking all over himself. And when you're both rested you call me. I have another job for you, if yer up to it."

"Really, Bobby?" Dean moaned.

"Yeah, ya idjits. Someone needs to keep yer minds occupied. Now do as I say and don't make me drive out to wherever you are and spank your asses."

"Kinky, Bobby...," Dean started, but he didn't get far.

"Don't even think of saying it, Dean. Now listen to what I said and be nice."

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam said. "Will do."

"Bye," Dean added and picked up the phone to end the call.

"Bye, ya idjits."


End file.
